


Running the Show

by Silential



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Belly Kink, Force-Feeding, Gen, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, M/M, Mind the Tags, Weight Gain, chub kink, hunger strike, kylux referenced, mentions of torture, non-consensual feeding, the captor is basically Ma-Ma from Dredd, this chapter was originally in another of my fics, though the force-feeding is mentioned and not graphically described
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-07 03:34:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14662458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silential/pseuds/Silential
Summary: He had resisted their questions, when the smuggling crew realized exactly who they had managed to capture. He had resisted when questions turned to fists, when fists turned to the sharp edges of knives in places he hadn’t ever wanted knives to discover. And when they left him alone, he resisted the fragrance of the meals they put before him, the pangs of hunger that twisted up his insides, stabbing blades no less sharp than their outside counterparts. Still, he had thought, he was in control, and anything was tolerable as long as he remained so.That was until they came with a rope and a blaster. After that, there was no doubt who ran the show.Hux regrets going on that hunger strike.





	Running the Show

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to go in another of my fics, Not So Difficult, but I removed it and kept it as a stand-alone fic instead.

He regrets having gone on the hunger strike.

It wasn’t usual officer protocol, certainly not a maneuver included in the manual tucked away in the top drawer of the desk in his quarters. To be fair though, the manual was very roundabout in its descriptions of interrogation resistance, but its overall message was one of serenity, silence, and pride. Better to die than to reveal secrets of the Order, was largely the take-home message.

Hux had thought he was accomplishing exactly that.

He had resisted their questions, as crude and simple the questions of a smuggling crew tended to be when they realized exactly who they had managed to capture. He had resisted when questions turned to fists, when fists turned to the sharp edges of knives in places he hadn’t ever wanted knives to discover. And when they left him alone, he resisted the fragrance of the meals they put before him, the pangs of hunger that twisted up his insides, stabbing blades no less sharp than their outside counterparts. Still, he had thought, he was in control, and anything was tolerable as long as he remained so. 

That was until they came with a rope and a blaster. After that, there was no doubt who ran the show.

When they untie him and let him crawl to the pallet on the floor, he spends most nights unable to sleep.

They keep him shaved, his hair cut. For what reason, Hux can only guess, but he thinks it’s so that when they send a holo of him to the Order, there can be no mistaking the identity of their captive. One of the smugglers is a woman, lean and ropey with a mouth like an acetylene torch. She might even be the leader, he isn’t exactly sure; their command structure is hopelessly byzantine. It’s she who ‘cares’ for him, if that word can even be applied. She uses a straight razor to remove a few days’ worth of stubble, delights in reminding him of how easily her hand could slip as the blade kisses his adam’s apple. Her light brown hair is short and shaggy, and no doubt she cuts it the same way she cuts his own. She’s rough but precise, at least, though his skin screams raw and red for hours after. When she finishes with her handiwork she strokes his cheek, pressing into the red with a lopsided grin and gently tracing along his jaw. He keeps his eyes locked on the crudely tattooed vines crawling up the trellis of her neck. 

He shivers at the touch, desperate despite himself for any sense of kindness, however false. Sometimes she takes a cool wet cloth to his face and neck, and he’s ashamed of how grateful he feels after.

“Getting a little soft here, aren’t you, General?”

A wince twists his mouth – he’s not going soft, he’s just desperate – and she’s laughing, reaching into her back pocket for what he quickly learns is a mirror. She shakes her head, saying, “You don’t even know what I mean.”

She holds the mirror up and it’s tiny and smudged, but he can see the lower half of his face reflected within. Her words cut into him, throaty and cruel. “See it now? A little bit more there, eh, General?”

He swallows thickly, noting that yes, maybe there was a softness to his jaw that hadn’t been there before. He’d always had a weak chin, and this isn’t doing it any favors. Still he forces himself to sneer, replying, “I see nothing of the sort.”

She raises her brow, but her grin only widens. He doesn't like the glint in her eye; he'd seen it enough with those select officers who enjoyed interrogations a little too much. A playful pat to his cheek, and she doesn’t loosen the ropes around his hands as she usually would. Instead, she says calmly, “Seems we haven’t been doing a good enough job, then.”

The door slams shut as she leaves. Hux sits, and waits.

Half an hour later, the men return.

And return.

And return.

If he had thought they were ruthless in their onslaught before, it was nothing compared to now. Hux has no way to track the days and weeks, but he doesn’t need one to know that his captors return far, far too often. Most times he’s still full, pressure on his bloated stomach made worse by the ramrod way they have him tied to the chair. They don’t care, of course, and they laugh as they grab his face, a man far larger than he pressing down on his shoulders.

He still wears his uniform, sweat-slick and the worse for wear, and it isn’t long before he feels it tightening. At first the waistband is merely uncomfortable, the soft rise above it so mild that if he tries, he can ignore it. But it doesn’t take long for mild discomfort to give way to constant irritation, and then to a sensation of being strangled after each new visit from his captors. His thighs move into any extra room he might have had, his jacket is soon constricting his arms and chest. On the whole, it’s different than the constant fullness of his stomach, than the bloated after-effects of a meal. There can be no denying it, but still he tries.

Some time since the smugglers’ last visit, Hux sits up, alone on his pallet. He slowly undoes the buttons of his jacket, shrugging it roughly from his shoulders. His gaze rises to the ceiling as hands dare to slip down his chest, and when they arrive at his stomach, his eyes slam shut. His waist is thicker than he’s ever known it, and the sensation is almost unreal. His hands ghost over the burgeoning spare tire below the constricting vice of his trousers, arcing heavy and solid and straining the zipper. He’d known there was some extra there now, of course, but knowing is nothing compared to feeling.

Hux allows himself a moment of weakness, a moment defined by black hair and a face he doesn't know if he'll get to see again. Sitting there, a soft paunch spilling through his fingers and swelling by the day, Hux isn't sure he even wants to. At least Kylo could remember him the way he was, he thinks miserably, a son of a great house, a proud General of the Order. Not this, whatever she'd made him into.

“It’s all going to your belly now, isn’t it?”

His eyes snap open at her words, and the female smuggler is standing there in the open doorway, casually swinging one end of the rope. As if summoned by his thoughts, like a she-demon from one of the Outer Rim hellholes. She’d never directly partaken in this before, and Hux isn’t sure how to react. His hands slowly, purposefully drift from their post to grip the edge of his pallet, but the action only seems to make her smile broader. It's a cruel smile, with no trace of mirth. 

“Come on, boys,” she jeers, “let’s help a man out.”

They get to work, and it begins, as it always does.

Only this time, she strokes his face, and it’s that much worse. Fingers wet with what he refuses to believe are tears, her touch is light upon his cheeks, his jaw. 

And when the certain quiet, but unmistakable sound of a popping button hits his ears and his belly is finally free to fully expand, Hux can only close his eyes as she laughs.


End file.
